


Rivers in the Dust

by enigma731



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Peter Quill Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 01:38:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: Gamora sits back on her heels, feeling utterly useless, at a loss. What she knows is how to be a weapon, how to break people down into exacting little pieces.Softis not a thing she’s ever been, norwarm, even before Thanos managed to systematically eradicate every last trace. She is like space--cold and cruel and empty, everything Peter’s just managed to escape.But that’s not entirely true, she realizes. This particular hurt is one shedoesknow, in her own way.(Thatobligatory Vol. 2 missing scene. Don't you dare read this if you haven't already seen the movie, don't do it, don't spoil yourself!)





	Rivers in the Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, I accidentally a new ship? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (Don't worry, I'm not abandoning my others.)
> 
> Anyway, I feel like this particular missing scene is practically required fic writing, and I hope to read an infinite number of variations. I hope you all enjoy this one!
> 
> (Spoilers for Vol. 2, obviously.)

For the first time since she met him, Peter Quill is speechless.

Gamora’s been keeping a closed door between herself and the others, doing her best to ignore the way the ship is bucking and lurching with what she assumes is their ongoing escape. Focusing on silence, on absolute self-restraint is the only way she’s managed to avoid outright murdering Rocket, and probably everyone else in the immediate vicinity. She doesn’t re-engage with reality until she notices that the ship’s movement has stopped entirely, that she can hear voices.

By the time she locates them, it feels as though she’s stepping into a frozen scene, as though she’s somehow been pulled back into the sanctuary of suspended time she’s been trying to build around her mind, the only real defense she’s ever learned against tragedy, against grief. 

Peter is standing there in the airlock, posture rigid, as though suspended by some force other than his own strength or will. Clutched against his chest is Yondu’s body--clearly nothing more than a body at this point--limp and encrusted with ice crystals. Drax is a few feet away, Rocket motionless with his paw still on the controls from closing the door, as though somehow all of them have been struck simultaneously by the magnitude of what’s just happened.

And then, in the next instant the spell shatters, illusive stillness giving way to chaos again. Peter punches the button to deactivate his space suit just before his knees give out and he falls to the deck, Yondu’s body slipping from his grasp and landing with the sickening thud of dead weight.

Gamora moves purely on instinct, though her balance hasn’t fully recovered from being stunned. She hits the ground with a painful jolt as she kneels beside Peter, but she hardly even notices it, one hand going immediately to the place on his neck where she’s learned she ought to be able to feel his pulse. It’s there, she notes with an impossibly immense sense of relief, and it’s strong, though it’s racing. Peter has his eyes screwed shut, curls his into body into a ball, as though he’s been struck a blow directly in the stomach. Except he hasn’t, as far as she can tell. Not a physical one, in any case.

“Do something--” says Gamora, manages to stop herself from actually saying _with the body_. “Do something for Yondu.”

For a moment she worries that Drax won’t get the drift, that he’ll need more explicit instructions. But for once he does follow, just nods and lifts Yondu’s lifeless form as gently as if he was holding a child. Rocket follows him out, and then Gamora doesn’t have a thought to spare for them anymore, turns her attention solely to Peter. He still hasn’t acknowledged her presence, is still curled up, gasping for breath and shaking convulsively.

“Quill,” she says firmly, resting a palm against his back, then realizes how harsh that sounds. “Peter. Tell me what you need.”

It’s an order and he doesn’t respond in words, just curls further into himself, making guttural noises that aren’t quite sobs. Gamora sits back on her heels, feeling utterly useless, at a loss. What she knows is how to be a weapon, how to break people down into exacting little pieces. _Soft_ is not a thing she’s ever been, nor _warm_ , even before Thanos managed to systematically eradicate every last trace. She is like space--cold and cruel and empty, everything Peter’s just managed to escape. She considers simply giving up, calling the others back in and letting them do their best at comfort.

But that’s not entirely true, she realizes. This particular hurt is one she _does_ know, in her own way. She knows what it feels like to lose family, to lose a home all in one day. She still remembers what she had wanted, then.

“Peter,” she says again, more gently, running her hand up his back until she’s touching his cheek. The ghostly chill of space is gone now, his skin damp and flushed with heat even as he continues to shiver. He’s in shock, she thinks, and lying on the floor can’t be helping.

“Peter,” she says for the third time, getting an arm around his shoulders and trying to coax him upright. “Come on, help me. You can’t stay here.”

This time he listens, leaning heavily into her but managing to get to his feet. He moves as though his limbs are made out of lead, as though he’s lost track of the way his body operates, but she gets him to a bunk somehow. She ducks into the nearest bathroom, runs a towel under cold water.

Peter is sitting on the edge of the mattress when she returns, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. 

“It’s me,” says Gamora, because she’s not sure how well he’s tracking. She waits for him to nod slightly before she sits beside him, lays the wet compress against the back of his neck.

“Shit,” he hisses, a shudder running through him at the temperature, but at least now he’s managed a coherent word.

“Yes,” she agrees, wrapping an arm around him again, and she’s only momentarily surprised when he crumples into her.

For a long while they stay like that, his head on her shoulder, forehead pressed against the side of her neck, and time suspended once more, save for the rhythm of his breath gradually slowing. 

“I thought you were dead,” Gamora admits, when she thinks he might be calm enough for a conversation.

Peter sniffles, lifts his head just enough to look at her through wet eyelashes. “And that bothered you?”

She can’t help it; she rolls her eyes, huffs out a short, mirthless laugh. “No, I just thought you might enjoy some new ammunition the next time you want to gloat. _Of course_ it bothered me.”

“Kinda wish I _was_ dead.” He sighs. “I don’t really mean that, don’t take me up on it.”

“Not your best day though,” says Gamora, catching the rapidly-drying compress as it slides down his back.

“No.” He takes the towel from her, looks at it briefly before tossing it onto the floor. “Just--kinda thought this might be easier, not being eight years old and all.”

She nods once, curtly, feels the familiar tug of uncertainty at what to say. “I was the one who encouraged you to give Ego a chance. I’m sorry.”

He stiffens a little, shakes his head emphatically. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “I’m glad I learned the truth. I’m glad I learned the truth while you were there. If you hadn’t been--”

“You chose us over him,” she interrupts, _that_ truth landing like a blow, now that the shock of it all has begun to wear off.

Peter blinks at her, brow furrowed like she’s just said something truly ridiculous. “Well, _yeah_.”

Gamora studies him, tries to find the words to tell him what she means. “No one has ever chosen me--” She breaks off, reconsiders. “That’s not true. You have, before.”

“Yeah.” He sniffs again, wipes at his eyes with the back of one hand. “Keep trying to tell you that.”

“I’m sorry Ego wasn’t what you hoped,” she answers, because no direct reply feels in any way sufficient.

“You know what’s funny?” he asks, voice sounding brittle again.

She arches an eyebrow wordlessly.

“Always kinda thought Yondu was the immortal one.” He looks down at his hands, which are shaking again. “I mean, not _really_ , but...you know.”

Gamora takes his hands in both of hers, does her best to still them. “It’s easier to believe that about the people we love.”

He chokes out a laugh, a hollow, broken sound. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly.”

“You should lie down,” she tells him, because she isn’t sure either of them’s ready for the direction this is headed, especially not tonight.

He doesn’t argue, just sinks back against the bunk, boots and all. She doesn’t make him ask, doesn’t give him a choice as she stretches out behind him, letting her hand rest against the place where she can feel his heartbeat in his chest.

“Hey,” he says softly, the words almost lost in sheer exhaustion. “You’re sweet.”

“Don’t push it,” she warns, without conviction. “Right now I have you entirely at my mercy.”

He just laces their fingers and holds on.


End file.
